


Trap your wings (hold your flight)

by givebackmylifecas



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Wings, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:26:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25678057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givebackmylifecas/pseuds/givebackmylifecas
Summary: “You know you really can have your wings out here,” Andrés says softly, his tone one Martín has rarely ever heard directed at anyone that’s not Sergio or one of Andrés’ many wives and girlfriends. “No one would say anything or try and hurt you… I wouldn’t let them.”It’s easy for Andrés, who has beautiful, ink black feathers and an impressive wingspan, to tell Martín not to care about the rest of the gang’s opinion about his monstrous wings. To tell him that they surely won’t care, that Andrés would protect him.The Wingfic every fandom needs?
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 23
Kudos: 132





	Trap your wings (hold your flight)

**Author's Note:**

> yeah idk why i wrote this, but i did...
> 
> TWs for past discrimination, mentions of very vaguely implied abuse, non graphic canon typical violence (no shooting or anything)
> 
> Fic title from the Chris De Burgh song "Lonely Sky"

Stockholm has pretty wings. They’re not avian like Andrés’, with beautiful black feathers, or even the butterfly-like ones Tokyo and Denver both have. They’re translucent and she has four of them. For the life of him, Martín can’t remember what the insect is called that has wings like she does, but it's giving him a headache.

He watches her wings flutter nervously as she argues, Andrés looming over her, his own wings fluffed up to make him look more intimidating. Martín rolls his eyes. He doesn’t think his former best friend is really that invested in whatever it is he and Stockholm are arguing about, but he’s trying to win anyway.

Martín shifts and grimaces when his shoulders ache. After a quick glance around to make sure no one's paying attention to him, he decides to leave the courtyard. It’s been an hour since dinner and Sergio can’t really expect him to spend all his time with this band of misfits — and Andrés of all people. Besides, he’d really, really like to stretch his wings. Having to keep them tightly furled all day is really starting to wear him down, but he doesn’t want to have to deal with the questions and hostility that would surely follow him wearing his wings open and proud like everyone else.

He pushes his chair back, throws a flirtatious wink at Helsinki who has looked over at him, ignores Nairobi’s scowl and heads through the monastery to his room.

Once there, he shrugs out of his heavy suede jacket, sighing in relief as he lets his wings open, stretching out to their full length. He flaps them a couple of times, trying to ignore the sharp pain of his muscles screaming at him for having forced them into such a cramped position for so long.

He flops forward onto his bed, face first into his pillows, wings drooping over each side of the narrow bed, tips brushing the floor. He enjoys the freeing feeling so much that he is almost asleep when there’s a knock on his door.

He quickly sits up, pulling in his wings and wrapping a blanket around his shoulders, just covering himself before Andrés walks in.

“Oh,” he says, trying not to sound too relieved.

Andrés sighs. “I don’t know why you insist on hiding them. No one here will care.”

“Sure they won’t, and Sergio will definitely be able to control them if they do,” Martín says sarcastically.

“This isn’t your backwards Argentinian suburb, no one here is going to call you cursed or throw stones,” Andrés says.

Martín shakes his head. “Europe isn’t as progressive as you think, Andrés.”

Andrés’ jaw clenches at that, as if he’s figured out the implication behind Martín’s words, as if he still has the right to be concerned.

“Who?” he asks through clenched teeth.

Martín shrugs. “Does it matter?”

“Yes,” Andrés says immediately.

“Why?”

“Because you don’t deserve it.”

“When have I ever gotten what I deserve?” Martín asks bitterly and Andrés has the gall to look shocked.

“Martín,” he begins, but Martín interrupts him.

“Why are you here, Andrés?” He asks tiredly.

Andrés purses his lips. “I came to ask if you wanted to share a bottle of wine with me, no one else would appreciate it enough.”

“No,” Martín says, even though he misses sharing wine with Andrés, resting his head on the other man’s knee, running his fingers through the downy feathers Martín has always dreamt of having. “No, I’m not drinking with you.”

“Why?” Andrés asks and Martín is sure his mind is exaggerating the disappointment he sees in the other man’s eyes.

Martín sighs. “You know why.”

Andrés nods curtly, but doesn’t argue further. He turns to the door and opens it before he speaks again.

“You know you really can have your wings out here,” he says softly, his tone one Martín has rarely ever heard directed at anyone that’s not Sergio or one of Andrés’ wives. “No one would say anything or try and hurt you… I wouldn’t let them.”

Martín doesn’t know how to respond to that, so for once he stays silent and lets Andrés leave. When the other man is gone, he gets up and locks the door. It was foolish for him not to have done that in the first place, too focussed on finally getting the relief of freeing his wings.

It’s easy for Andrés, who has beautiful, ink black feathers and an impressive wingspan, to tell Martín not to care about the rest of the gang’s opinion. To tell him that they surely won’t care, that Andrés would protect him.

Once upon a time, Martín might have believed him, or at the very least trusted Andrés to keep him safe. But the years they were apart have been hard. Finding a landlord in Sicily willing to look past the old superstitions and realise that Martín’s wings have nothing to do with who he is as a person had taken a long time without Andrés there to sweet-talk who ever needed to be persuaded. Dating was hard too, so he mostly relied on late night hook-ups where the other person was either too drunk or too desperate to care much about the patchy, dull brown colouring and leathery consistency so unlike the avian or insectoid wings most people are used to.

He crawls back onto his bed, wrapping his wings around him in a feeble attempt at comfort. At least once this heist is done, he’ll have enough money to pay anyone who looks down on him to shut up.

* * *

Denver is the one who finally brings it up. It’s three days before the heist and they’re all having dinner in the courtyard of the monastery. Wine has been flowing liberally and Sergio has finally been convinced to let them all have a lie-in tomorrow morning.

Martín is glad the weather is still chilly enough for him to comfortably wear his thick jacket, although he knows it won’t stay that way much longer. He’s just taken a sip of his wine – definitely a vintage picked by Andrés – when Denver, who is deep in his cups points a wavering finger at Martín.

“How come we never see your wings? Do you not have any?” he asks and next to him, Stockholm looks embarrassed on his behalf, hissing at her husband to shut up.

Martín clenches his jaw, doing his best to stay calm. “Of course I have wings, Denver, don’t be stupid.”

“Oh,” the man says, ignoring how visibly tight Stockholm’s grip on his arm has become. “Then why don’t you ever have them out? Are they ugly or something? They can’t be worse than this guy I knew in Madrid – he had the weirdest pattern on his –” Denver is thankfully cut off by Stockholm clapping a hand over his mouth.

Denver scowls, but doesn’t say anything else when Stockholm uncovers his mouth and Martín manages to relax again right up until Tokyo chimes in.

“Denver kind of has a point though, it’s weird that we haven’t seen them. What are you going to do in the bank? They won’t fit under a jumpsuit will they?” she asks. Martín tries to ignore her voice and the way his heart is speeding up, beating harder in his chest.

His head jerks up when he hears Andrés speak. The other man is leaning back in his chair looking fully relaxed, even as he fixes Tokyo with a dangerously flat stare.

“Your inane chatter is annoying on the best of days Tokyo, do you think we could make it through one dinner without you and Denver opening your mouths and pure shit coming out?” he asks coolly.

Tokyo laughs coldly, her eyes flashing furiously and her delicate wings quivering, reflecting the evening light onto the wall behind her in tiny rainbows. “What, we’re not allowed to ask your boyfriend why he walks around looking like the hunchback of fucking Notre Dame?”

Andrés puts down his wine glass and leans forward, teeth bared in a mirthless smile. “Palermo is not my boyfriend, Tokyo. But if you know what’s good for you, you’ll show some damn respect to your betters, you insufferable little moth-bitch.”

Tokyo is out of her seat and lunging at Andrés before Martín can blink. Nairobi reaches out to grab her, but she’s too slow and Tokyo’s hand collides with Andrés’ face with an echoing crack. Everyone freezes – including Tokyo – and then Andrés is on his feet. He grabs Tokyo by the throat, slamming her back onto the table, face inches from hers as she struggles against him.

“I’m a benevolent person, so I’m going to forgive you for that just this once. If you touch me again, if you mention Palermo’s wings again to anyone, I will kill you – understood?” he asks, voice low but ringing across the courtyard in the dead silence.

“Yes,” Tokyo gasps.

Andrés smiles genially and releases her. “I think I’ll finish my wine in my room. I’ll see you all tomorrow morning.”

He nods at both Sergio and Martín and then disappears into the monastery, hands in the pockets of his slacks.

“Holy shit,” Nairobi says when he’s gone, but a look from Sergio stops anything else she was going to say.

Martín shifts uncomfortably as he notices the glances everyone thinks they’re surreptitiously throwing him and he downs his wine as quickly as he can. “I think I’ll go to bed,” he says, getting to his feet and hurrying out of the courtyard before anyone can say anything.

* * *

When he gets to his room, he finds he can’t stay there. The walls are too confining, the thick stone reminding him of everything he lost, of everything he can never have, of what he had for a few glorious moments.

He pulls an overcoat on, allowing himself a little more freedom for his wings, not furling them quite as tightly as he would have to if he was wearing a shorter jacket.

He picks his way through the dark corridors of the monastery and out into the gardens. There’s a spot where he used to sit with Andrés, when he was still allowed to help the other man groom his wings. Andrés had always said none of his wives did it as well as Martín and he’s almost ashamed now to think of how eager he was to be allowed to even have such a small part of Andrés.

The grassy knoll by the olive trees is just as it was five years ago and when he lifts one of the flower pots near the path, he laughs because the cigarettes he stashed there right before Andrés broke his heart are still there. The carton is a little squished, but the cigarettes inside are dry, as is the book of matches.

He sits down, leaning against the same tree that used to cast its shade over him and Andrés, and lights a cigarette, inhaling deeply. The cigarette tastes a little stale, but he doesn’t care all that much, enjoying the wave of nostalgia it brings with it.

It’s already mostly dark and when he’s sat there for long enough to smoke three cigarettes at a leisurely pace, he decides he’s probably safe to take off his coat. He shrugs out of it and uses it to cover his legs like a blanket instead.

It’s been a while since he’s had his wings out in the open like this and he feels a thrill of fear go down his spine at the thought that anyone could walk out and see him like this. When he and Andrés first arrived at the monastery years ago, when Andrés’ friendship made him bold, he would walk through the hall with his wings unfurled and open. Andrés would tease him about looking like a demon and they would laugh at the monks who crossed themselves when he walked passed. Thankfully that didn’t happen often – especially once Andrés made it clear his patronage was conditional upon Martín being treated as well as he was.

Alone in the moonlight, Martín allows himself to stretch his wings as far open as he can, flapping them hard enough that he sends a flurry of leaves scurrying across the lawn. The cool air feels so good and he wonders what would happen if tomorrow he just came to breakfast with his wings uncovered, if he decided to tell the others to go to hell and damn the consequences.

The thought is quickly replaced by the memory of the rocks the other kids would throw at him back in Buenos Aires, how they would chase him on his way home from school, how his own mother would shudder when his wings accidentally brushed against her or his grandmother.

They’ll find out soon enough, he decides. Tokyo was right about one thing, his wings certainly won’t fit under a jumpsuit and the harness he sometimes wears to suppress them doesn’t allow for the mobility he’d need inside the bank.

He shivers as the wind picks up and he wraps his wings around him, cocooning himself in their warmth. Andrés had once told him he looked like burrito when he does that, the flexibility of his wings allowing him to wrap himself up much more tightly than Andrés can with his feathered ones.

He starts when he hears footsteps and he looks up to see Raquel walking down the path towards him. She’s already much to close for him to even attempt to cover up, but he does it anyway, pulling his wings tightly against his back and pulling his coat around his shoulders.

She doesn’t say anything, just sits down on the grass next to him and grabs the carton of cigarettes. She gives him a questioning look and he shrugs. She lights up and takes a couple drags before she speaks. Martín is prepared for her to ask him to leave, to say that they know about him and his wings, that they don’t want something so unlucky on the heist with them.

“You know I have a daughter, right?” she asks instead and Martín blinks.

“Uh yes, Sergio mentioned it.”

She nods. “Her name is Paula, she’s nine.”

“Oh,” Martín says, unsure of what else to reply.

Raquel makes a noise that could be considered a laugh and then sighs. “She has wings like yours. La maldición del murciélago.”

“The curse of the bat,” Martín says and she nods. He looks at her tawny, feathered wings and frowns. “Was it her father who…” he begins but Raquel shakes her head.

“No… Paula is one of those on whom they just appear – didn’t stop my ex-husband from accusing me of cheating though.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugs. “It’s okay.”

He knows it isn’t really, but nods anyway.

“What about you?” Raquel asks and Martín knew the question was coming, but that doesn’t make it any easier to answer.

“The same,” he says quietly. “I was just born like this. My father had a lot in common with your ex-husband it seems, but he just left when he realised I was never going to grow any feathers.”

“That sucks.” She says it so matter of factly that it startles a laugh out of him.

He nods. “Yeah, it does.” He’s silent for a moment, watching Raquel exhale smoke into the night. “Did you know the whole time? About me? About these?”

He rustles his wings demonstratively under the coat and she shakes her head.

“No, not the whole time. I suspected, when you never showed them, especially when both Sergio and Andrés were strangely tight-lipped about it,” she says softly.

He feels a sudden rush of affection for Andrés which he’s used to happening at odd moments, but the sentiment being directed towards Sergio surprises him a little.

“You don’t have to be ashamed you know,” Raquel says. “I know things were hard for you when you were growing up, that they’re still hard now in some places. But they won’t be here. Your wings are a part of you and you’re one of us. Everyone will understand that.”

Martín is definitely not holding back tears when she reaches her hand out and gently tugs off his coat.

“Do you think Paula’s will look like this?” she asks as his wings automatically flex a little.

“Maybe,” he says quietly. “Hopefully without all the scars.”

Raquel looks a little sick at that and nods. “Hopefully.”

He sniffs and looks over at her. “Thank you,” he whispers.

She squeezes his hand and smiles. “It’s okay to be afraid Palermo, just don’t let it control you.”

“Easier said than done,” he replies and she laughs.

“Yeah, that’s true.”

She takes another drag of her cigarette, staring up at the stars, her top feathers moving a little in the breeze. Slowly, Martín allows his wings to loosen a little, unfolding them just enough that they won’t get cramps. He knows from the way the corner of her mouth twitches that she notices, but she doesn’t say anything so they continue to sit in silence.

* * *

Eventually it starts to drizzle and they head back inside. Even though he wants to, Martín doesn’t put his coat back on. It’s late enough that no one should be roaming the halls, he reasons. Not to mention so dark in the unlit corridors that even if he does run into someone, they shouldn’t be able to get a good look at him.

He and Raquel part ways outside her and Sergio’s room and she pulls him into a brief hug, her feathers brushing against his chin.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Palermo,” she says quietly. “Remember that you’re one of us.”

He nods, smiling at her tentatively. “I’ll try.”

She slips into her room, shutting the door quietly behind her and Martín heads down the hall towards his room. He’s almost there when another door opens, warm yellow light flooding the hallway and Andrés steps out.

“Martín,” he says, surprise colouring his voice. “I would have thought you went to bed hours ago.”

Martín shrugs, conscious of how the movement jostles his wings, immediately drawing Andrés’ sharp eyes. “I was talking to Raquel.”

“She told you about Paula,” he says and it’s not a question, but Martín nods anyway.

“She did.”

Andrés studies him. “And did you find it a helpful conversation?”

“I suppose so,” Martín says. “It made some things clear to me.”

“Like what?” Andrés asks, raising an eyebrow.

“That I’ve been a coward,” Martín mumbles, eyes cast towards the ground.

Andrés scoffs. “You’re many things, Martín, but I’ve never considered you to be a coward.”

Martín looks up at him with a frown. “Oh really?”

“Really,” Andrés says sincerely. “You lack confidence, not courage.”

“Aren’t they the same thing?”

“No.”

“Right,” Martín says, feeling uneasy with the direction the conversation is taking. “Well, I should…”

Andrés is staring at him, eyes dark and unreadable and Martín doesn’t know how to be around him anymore. Hasn’t done for years, not since Andrés went and ruined everything they had. He turns away and almost misses what Andrés says. 

“Don’t go,” he says and Martín’s heartbeat picks up as he twists back to face him.

He wants to ask why, but his words fail him as Andrés steps towards him, closer than he’s been to him in years.

“Martín,” Andrés says softly and Martín hates how he says his name, how it still makes him want to curl into and around him. “I –“ Andrés starts and Martín cuts him off.

“Don’t”, he says. “If you’re about to apologise, please don’t. I don’t want to hear it.”

Andrés blinks, perplexed. “Why not?”

“Because,” Martín says, hating how his voice cracks. “Because I don’t know if you really mean it. Because if I accept it and you don’t, then I don’t think I’ll recover. Because you left me and we’ve been here for months and you’re only now trying to apologise.”

“I’m sorry,” Andrés says, his jaw set. “And I do mean it, Martín. You’re right, I treated you terribly and I shouldn’t have waited so long to try and apologise. It shouldn’t have taken seeing how the others treated you at dinner, to make me remember that you’re mine and that looking after you is my responsibility.”

“It’s not though. You don’t need to… protect me or defend me because you feel guilty.”

Andrés lets out an incredulous breath. “It’s not because I feel guilty, Martín. It’s because I love you, am in love with you and have been for far too long. And I refuse to watch you hide yourself away because you think you have to or you’re afraid of the opinions of a bunch of petty thieves.”

“Petty thieves?” Martín repeats while his brain repeats the words ‘I love you’ over and over again.

“Is that really the part you’re stuck on?”

Martín shakes his head. “No, no it’s not.”

“I love you,” Andrés repeats. “All of you. And I’m sorry I left and that it took me this long to come back, but my feelings for you haven’t changed.”

“I – I don’t know what to say,” Martín says and Andrés smiles, but there’s uncertainty behind it.

“Well of course I understand if you don’t feel the same way. But I meant what said to you earlier – and to Tokyo – whether you love me back or not, I won’t let anything happen to you. You can be your whole, true self here, Martín. There’s nothing wrong with you, nothing you have to be ashamed of.”

The words tumble from Andrés’ mouth as if they’ve been waiting years to be let out. He sounds less eloquent than usual, less composed.

It’s that, more than anything, which convinces Martín that maybe Andrés is telling the truth. Because Andrés is unflappable and can be charming to the point of appearing cold, but here he is stood in front of Martín in his pyjamas, with his usually perfect feathers in disarray, confessing his love in a draughty hallway.

“I love you,” Martín admits. “I don’t know if you remember, but I never got the chance to tell you last time.”

Andrés stares at him, lips slightly parted, eyes wide although Martín doesn’t know why he would be surprised by this knowledge.

“You love me?” Andrés murmurs.

Martín nods. “I do,” he says and his heart is beating uncontrollably fast now.

For an achingly long moment Andrés doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even move and Martín starts to wonder if maybe he was hallucinating this whole thing. But then Andrés is grasping the back of his neck and stepping into Martín’s space and pressing their lips together in a fierce kiss. Martín returns it, gasping as Andrés’ hands move down his back, fingers curling into the muscles near his wing joints, closer than anyone has gotten to his wings in years.

Andrés pulls away, hands still clutching Martín tightly to his chest. “Tell me you’ll come inside. I don’t want you to leave yet.”

It’s more vulnerability than Martín has ever seen from Andrés and he is helpless to do anything but nod, allowing Andrés to drag him into the room.

* * *

He wakes feeling comfortably warm. He has his face pressed to a pillow that he quickly recognises as not his own and there’s something warm moving under one of his wings, which are splayed across the bed.

He turns his head and sees Andrés curled on his side, almost completely covered by Martín’s left wing, eyes shut against the morning light seeping in from between the flimsy curtains.

He starts to pull in his wing, embarrassed about draping the appendage all over him, when suddenly Andrés’ hand moves, resting flat against the delicate membrane.

“It’s okay,” Andrés says, eyes blinking open as he shuffles closer to Martín. “It’s warm.”

He smiles, one corner of his mouth hitching up faster than the other, and Martín can’t help the way his heart flutters seeing it.

“You don’t mind?” he can’t help but ask, seeking reassurance and Andrés leans forward enough that he can press a kiss to Martín’s forehead.

“Of course not,” he says firmly. “They’re just another part of you, aren’t they?”

Martín smiles back at him. “I suppose so.”

Andrés kisses him again, this time on the mouth and Martín wraps his arms around him, fingers burying themselves in Andrés’ silky feathers.

“Mmh, we need to go to breakfast soon,” Andrés reminds him, pulling away when things start to get a little heated.

Martín sighs. “I suppose we do.”

“You shouldn’t cover up today,” Andrés says and Martín stiffens. Immediately, Andrés starts stroking the space between his shoulder blades comfortingly. “Only if you want to, mi amor.”

“No you’re right,” Martín says slowly. “I shouldn’t be afraid.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Andrés agrees. “But it’s okay if you are. And if anyone says anything, I’ll just stab them with a fork.”

Martín laughs. “I think Sergio might object to that.”

Andrés shrugs. “So what if he does, I told you I’d look after you.”

“Thank you,” Martín says and Andrés simply smiles. “Let’s maybe try not to stab anyone though.”

“I can’t promise anything,” Andrés says and Martín laughs again.

* * *

When they do go to breakfast, with Martín wearing his wings out, Andrés glares so fiercely that even though Denver opens his mouth to say something, he immediately shuts it again. Raquel gives Martín an encouraging look and he smiles at her. He even allows one wing to stretch out just enough that it bumps Andrés’, sliding against his feathers, keeping him grounded even as he finally feels free.

**Author's Note:**

> uh... hope you liked this? leave a kudos or comment if you did or scream at me on tumblr ([@hefellfordean](https://hefellfordean.tumblr.com)) or twitter ([@angstypalermo](https://twitter.com/angstypalermo))


End file.
